Be Still My Bleeding Heart
by Cuppa Char
Summary: But, instead, Dean continues, slender fingers tight and bent as he pulls and scratches, nails sharp enough to break skin, light blood appearing and then trailing down, like one solitary tear.


**Be Still My Bleeding Heart (1/1)**

**Summary:** Sam has a dream. Cronenberg style

**Pairing:** Sam pov, Dean (gen)

**Rating:** T, bloody descriptions

**A/N:** Attempted Shirtless!Dean before the gore started.

I have not neglected FtA, but this got stuck in my head when picturing Dean (or not) treading the fragile line b/w upset and angry and overly dramatic melodrama. And this is melodrama, well the last bit of it anyway, in a weird, twisted, blood-thirsty kinda way. In the vein of 'Skin'. Nuff said!

**Disclaimer:** Supernatural and them boys are not mine. Not for profit

**Be Still My Bleeding Heart**

Sam always awakes with the same dreams. Ferocious dreams. So ferocious that they always leave his heart in his throat, and his nails digging into the endless motels' suspicious looking sheets. So ferocious that he desperately wants to claw his way back to consciousness, and would willingly sob like a girl over all the horrific things he'd just been made to see, to a brother who'd always be there with a reassuring hand and warm inviting eyes.

But he doesn't

All the dreams are the same. Each and everyone. And all of them are about Dean. He knows that they are not visions, just like he knows it is not a thing of the past. It's just simply how it is. He thinks he knows what it is and what it means and wishes the he could talk to Dean about them. But he knows Dean won't because he doesn't do that kind of thing. Or can't. He doesn't do those emotionally bare talks, not the 'chick-flick' moments, and most definitely not one of those dreaded hallmark moments.

In fact to get Dean to talk or open, you pretty much need copious amounts of alcohol, and a blow to the head, and even then it's pretty much like trying to lead a horse to water and making it drink. Dean had, on rare occasions, been brutally honest. He would say just one sentence or a few words uttered here and there in the moment of time. The words usually, simple, painful facts of want and need, cut like a knife but he never left a chance for Sam to delve deeper, or challenge him on it, by getting straight back to business and putting his game-face back on. It left it easier, for him too, to focus on why he there in the first place.

And so this dream, the imagery and symbolism, was so profound as it stood out brightly, in as much the same way as Dean did, face ghastly pale in contrast with the ugly open red wound that splattered his torso and clothing.

Sam knew that he was to blame as much as his father. He'd ignored the signs and the words. He'd ignored, or even let it pass with a selfish flippant remark, the rare affectionate honesty, that must have been so hard for his brother to admit to, just so he didn't have to face how hard this was all for him. He couldn't ignore it now. Not anymore.

The dream was the same each time. Dean standing in a room that Sam didn't recognise. There was nothing spectacular about it – it was pretty basic, with bare off-white walls, shadowed in places, a couple of discarded duffel bags to the right, an over-sized rickety wooden rocking chair, that didn't sit right, to the left.

The wiring must have been bad too; as Sam felt pretty sure it didn't mean the presence of anything supernatural, as it slowly flickered, showering Dean with burst of light, flashes, like a bad pantomime villain.

Sam was never there; instead he always felt he was an outsider looking in, like the whole scene was playing out for him as if he was watching a cheap horror flick.

Dean always stood in the middle of the room, completely still, as he ran his hands up and own his torso, exploring the fabric between his fingers. With a sigh, he'd pull the shirt off in one swift motion, back and side arched, letting it fall to the floor, crumbled at his feet. He'd return to running his hands up and own his body, this time exploring his own skin, touching lightly at the scars littered across him.

After a while, seemingly bored and disinterested, Dean would bring his other hand up to his chest, letting his fingers ghost there for a second, before both set of fingers had met in the middle, arms tense and showing pressure, as the fingers curled.

At this point, Sam always wants to cry out, reach right into the played out scene, and wrench Dean right out of it, pulling him into his arms, pry his fingers away from his chest and envelope him into safety.

But, instead, Dean continues, slender fingers tight and bent as he pulls and scratches, nails sharp enough to break skin, light blood appearing and then trailing down, like one solitary tear. He doesn't stop there – he pushes and he pulls harder, skin stretching and breaking further, until bloody, his fingers looking submerged. The sound of tissue and muscles tearing always causes the confused fear, which paralyses Sam, to turn into a sickening acid feeling, at the back of his mouth.

Dean doesn't stop, he never screams out in pain, as he continues, winces ever so slightly with stoic bravado, as the unmistakable sound of ribs cracking and breaking, and being cranked apart, fills the room with a resounding, and horrific, crackle. Like a frigging sickening and gruesome, awe-dropping impact of a Cronenberg movie, Dean pulls the skin and ribs apart, as if he was about to start digging into a immense feast, as sounds of tissue and muscles tearing further inflicted the air, skin puckered up tight around the gaping wound, organs showing in all their glory.

These organs, and their individual layers of tissue and muscle, are the next target, as he reaches in further, nails going in deep, cutting like a blunt knife on tough steak.

Some organs are pushed and pulled, nails catching on them, as the massacre goes on. The beat of his heart becoming noticeable as he dug away, deeper and further, until it's visible, thumping steadily, as it retracted and expanded in his chest. Both hands push in deep, elbows at funny, not quite unnatural, angles, as he placed both hands and fingers around the beating mass of tissue, hands moving with the expansion. With intense concentration, face tight and creased, he pulls hard, sloppy splurges of blood making there presence known, as strangles of muscle restrain it with vigorous force and then with a sudden, comical 'plop' it falls away easily.

Dean stills, staring quizzically at the object in his open palms, before his legs give way and he gracefully slipped to his knees, raising his arms, slowly above him, flaps of muscle, tissue, and bristled cartilage dangling off the organ as if it was an ornamental decoration, like a sacrificial gift to the gods.

And Dean speaks. Not in the Dean-voice Sam knows so well. No, these words sound like they belong to a child, someone who is not yet a man, and Sam finds it surreal to hear such a child-like voice, coming from the 26 year old man that Dean was. Remaining on his knees, holding his still bloody and beating heart, above him, looking into the shadowed walls, the dream always ends with the same words "See Daddy, look what you've done".

And those words, Sam realises, besides a difference of one word, are about him too. Of course Dean would never come straight out and say 'See Sam, look what you've done' but he knows that they are true. Trapped between quarrels, and two men's personal blind-sided agendas and journeys of vengeance, fighting the good fight while watching the only remaining members of his family get nearer to the edge of death altogether.

Sam always awakes with the same ferocious dreams. Dean's always there with the same reassuring hand and warm and inviting eyes. As much as he'd like to deny it, and amend everything with his epiphany, Sam doesn't know if anything will change.

.Finis.


End file.
